Author's Note: Hey, there! I'm fairly new to the website and even newer to actually writing pieces for anything but my own personal satisfaction, so please feel free to tell me if there are any mistakes or to give any constructive advice. Most anything is welcome, you'll find lol. So, here you go and I hope you enjoy my little Gadreel piece. I'm hoping to write more of him in the future. :)

Disclaimer: I do not, have not, and unfortunately will never own anything of Supernatural.

It is often forgotten that Gadreel had once been a formidable warrior, he thinks.

From the second that the first whisper had escaped of his failure, it seemed as if all of his brethren had removed any knowledge of his triumphs and achievements. His scars were nothing more than a badge of shame in their eyes, his titles flimsy pieces of an even flimsier character. No longer was he Gadreel, the Angel of War, Bringer of Chaos, Right Hand of Michael. He had become Gadreel, the Angel to let the serpent into the Garden. Gadreel, the Fallen, the Deceiver, the Lost.

'Heaven's longest running joke', as Metatron had so kindly provided, he laments.

It has been so long forgotten that is has become nothing but his own memory. But, he supposes is it not so bad. He really had become Gadreel, the Fallen, and the Angel to let the serpent in. It is a name he has rightfully earned, even if he had been deceived himself.

But in moments like these, easily maneuvering through the motions of battle with his opponent pinned and breathless beneath him, able to fully exercise his strength, he finds himself reflecting upon it.

"Yield," he thunders, his voice low and clear despite the struggle ongoing underneath him.

Castiel looks up with fury in his eyes. His lips are curled in a snarl, white teeth bare and gleaming in the dim light of the room, and his dark brows furrow in concentration.

"Never," he hisses back, his body trapped and twisted with Gadreel's own. He is strong, there is no doubt. Gadreel can easily see him leading a garrison. A part of him even wishes that he could have mentored the younger angel back then, shown him the tools of war and the true extent of his powers. "I will not yield."

Gadreel feels the ghost of a smile curve his own lips at his brother's ferocity. It is pleasing and, really, all the more endearing to him.

"You are pinned with no chance of escape, brother." Gadreel leans forward until he is sure his eyes are no more than five inches from Castiel's own. "No chance of triumph," he whispers playfully.

It is Castiel whom smiles then; eyes full with humor and pure delight. "I believe the phrase is, 'Where there is a will, there is a way.'"

"Show me, then," he laughs good-heartedly, and the struggle begins anew.

Gadreel feels lighter than he has in eons. There is challenge and mischief written into every line of Castiel's body, muscles tensing and working to free himself, his will astonishing even in the face of defeat. It is admirable. And he, too, looks much better than he has since Gadreel first laid his sight upon him, in Grace and in human standards. Gadreel is thankful for that. Thankful and relieved, as he often is in anything concerned with the younger angel.

So he may be known as Gadreel, the Fallen, the Deceiver, the Lost, the Angel who let the serpent into the Garden. In the eyes of Heaven and his Father, he may be nothing more than a relic of times past and a stain upon their kind and history. He finds himself worryingly fine with that, even after such little time has passed since his attempted suicide in that prison cell.

Because here, he is simply Gadreel, an Angel, an ally, a friend, a brother, and he is happier with that than he ever thought he could be.